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Winter iggi 


A quarterly, Governors State University, Park Forest South, IL 60466 

Vol. 4, No. 3 WINTER 1981 

A quarterly published at Governors State University under the auspices of the Provost's Office ©1981 Governors State University and Helen Hughes 


Helen E. Hughes, Editor 
Lynn Thomas Strauss, Managing Editor 
Joan Lewis, Editorial Consultant 
Suzanne Oliver, Graphic Designer 

Donna Bandstra, Social Sciences 

Rev. Ellen Dohner, Religion 

Rita Durrant, League of American Penwomen 

Dottie Fisk, Children's Creativity 

Ann Gerhart, Women's Networking 

Harriet Gross, Sociology/Women's Studies 

Helene Guttman, Biological Sciences 

Mimi Kaplan, Library Resources 

Young Kim, Communications Science 

Harriet Marcus, Journalism 

Elizabeth Ohm, Library Resources 

Betye Saar, Fine Arts 

Marjorie Sharp, Human Relations Services 

Sara Shumer, Political Theory 

Emily Wasiolek, Literature 

Rev. Elmer Witt, Campus Ministries 

Table of contents 


Introduction 3 

by Joan LeiviA 

In Memoriam 4 

by Ccuiol TMoA 

Poems 7 

by Lynn UaAnak 

Love and Danger 9 

by Vaion OJebbeA 

Poems 12 

by iKene Steele 

Shi kasta by Doris Lessing 13 

ie.V4.ewtd by Lynn Tkoncii StAauAA 

Tat i ana Mamonova's "Preamble": 
Seven Translations 


by Joan VoliA M&yeJiA 

Creative Lives: Mimi Kaplan 

Letters to The Creative Woman 

From The Editor's Viewpoint 
by Helen E. Hughe* 




Cover photograph 
Rhoda Riley 


This Is a very special issue of 
The Creative Woman , an issue dedicated 
to the lyrical, the imaginative works 
of contemporary writers Presented 
here is a sampling of the excellent 
submissions sent to The Creative 
Woman in recent months. They repre- 
sent creativity in progress — women 
engaged in the synthesis of the human 
condition in personal terms and ex- 
pressed through their fiction, poetry, 
criticism. Our authors have achieved 
varying degrees of recognition. Not 
all would even claim writing as their 
primary profession. But the unique 
expression of womanhood which marks 
their work possesses an immediacy, 
a universality of experience that 
needs sharing. We proudly do so in 
the following pages. 

Joan LwiA, Poet/uj Editoi 

To OUA tlQjOLd<?Jli> t 

The 6peclal <c64ue on Women and the 
AmeAlcan Vnontloji ha6 been re- 
scheduled fioi WinteA 19S2. Qn. 
Beeton invitee aKtlcJLet, deAc/Ubtng 
the faontien. expedience In a 
kti>torUcal context* 


Summary of Printing Expense 

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Femi nist 

Schol arship 



1 1 1-1 

Po I i t i cs 



1 1 1-2 

Year of the 

Chi Id 




1 1 1-3 

Sai 1 ing 



1 1 1-4 











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Inflation has hit The 

Creative Woman, 

just as 

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I se. 

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What can 

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n Memoriam 

by CoaoI TzZdoA 

In this area, Yehrzeit candles 
are hard to find c And, if I found 
one, in the corner of a supermarket, 
it would be embarassing, like 
carrying my Jewishness to the check- 
out counter. A whisper of strange 
rites to rol I across the rubber 
conveyer with my grapefruits and 
Charmin toilet paper. I have to 
look up the spelling of Yehrzeit 
and I know as I ittle of the memorial 
rites as the check-out clerk. But 
my mind carries the image of men in 
a synogogue, rising, and moving 
their bodies back and forth. I 
don't remember if I was ever there 
or if it is just one of those 
pictures that I've seen and has 
stayed with me. 

Like pictures of immigrants. 

The candles are ugly, mother. 
A heavy glass filled with wax and a 
short stump that keeps burning for 
24 hours until it flickers out. 
What kind of image of life is that? 
Better for the glass to have some 
fragility. For the wick to be long 
and tapered. No, no, this is a 
heavy, functioning reality. The 
light keeps sinking, to death. 

My love is weighty. It lies 
on my heart and constricts my throat 
with tears. I always see you in the 
New York streets with a heavy tweed 
suit and a pocketbook I can hang on 
to to keep up with your rushing pace. 
Or I see you where you're not: in 
the halls of the house on East Twelfth 
Street. Or I hear myself calling 
your office and wondering who to ask 
for. If I say Mrs. Blum I feel shut 
out, I i ke a stranger; if I ask for 
my mother I feel like a child. I 
envy how clear it is for the girl who 
works for you: Monia, she calls, your 
daughter's on the phone. 

I remember my terror on the 
August day you died. I could sketch 
each detail of the hospital room. 

But what was the date? And even if 
I remembered that, the candle light- 
ing changes each year c 

Every summer I've been afraid 
of forgetting. I've always looked 
for the Jewish calendar early in 
June, circled the date, then under- 
lined it c And, each year, not 
knowing the prayers or proper rites, 
I've trusted dumbly that the spirits 
would understand as I put my head 
in a kerchief, mumbled the only 
Hebrew words I knew, and then tried 
to speak to you Never a very 
satisfactory ceremony as I tried to 
tell you that I hope everything is 
a I I right and that I love you. 

Please, God, I whisper,. But 
I don't know what comes next c 

Mother, do you know that ants 
have eight legs, not six? And if 
you crush them in napkins you will 
hear a crunch. If you scoop them 

up, thinking they're dead, you'll 
find them crawling out of the garbage,, 
Ants have a lot of life This 
morning I watched and I knew I'd 
be paralyzed next time I find them 
crawling around the food c I'll 
pretend I didn't see I'll enter 
the rushing world where there are 
things to be done and where you 
must get the highchair clean 

I want to look at things clearly, 
not with gaudy sentiment,, 

In all of 
is a picture of 
unf ul f i I led, and 
is true that we 
perhaps we also 
From a I I your d i 
could I have put 
of a different I 
sadness I ie more 
Do I remember on 

my images, your life 
hope, recurring and 

of sadness. If it 
create our own I ives 
create our parent's., 
fferent experiences 

together a picture 
i f e? Does your 

in me than in you? 
ly the most poignant 

I have a photograph of you, 
a new American, in a white sailor 
blouse and a pleated skirt But 
who told me of the 12-year-old 
refugee traveling and hiding for 
two years before escaping to America? 
From where did I get the story of 
you and your mother inching across 
a frozen river at night carrying 
bushes as a camouflage? And who 
remembered that you found school so 
enchanting you said that hearing 
the bell was like awakening from 
a dream? I only remember one story 
coming from you: for a clerk's 
job you stood in a Depression line 
four blocks long and 30 years later 
you were still amazed that you were 
hi redo We pretended that the story 
explained why you seldom missed a day 
of work. 

I am suspicious that the lives 
of everyone's immigrant parents 
sound alike but the suspicions lie 
in another part of me 

I think the calendar is in 
the bottom drawer of my jewelry box,, 
This year as I move toward it some- 

thing moves right below the surface 
of my mind and I keep a thought 
from exploding,, Surreptitiously, as 
I am dusting, I push the box to the 
back of my dresser I haven't 
let myself know yet that a decision 
has been made, 

I lie in bed and listen to 
the constant electric hum of crickets. 
Yet even as I acknowledge that the 
summer is over I explain to the air — 
if as a spirit you know that I didn't 
light the candle, you must understand 
the reasons. Do you know that I 
have two children now and I don't 
know how to mother them? I drive 
through little towns and watch mothers 
and their children out on the lawns 
Is that how it should be?, I wonder,, 
But, I ike you, I go away all day and 
when I'm home, I'm too eager to 
please,, I dream of eating the sand 
in the children's sandbox* White 
grains fill my mouth with dust and 
rise to the surface of my skin, 
scratching at my pores, I awake 
with nausea and in the darkness 
try to confront my discomfort, 

Insistently the crickets 
hum the sound of my anger, The 
words are distant. They take shape 
in the self-pitying child who has 
made herself in the image of your 
self-effacement. But you were 
there for outsiders, the child 
cries. A large boned woman with 
a strong voice; the clerk who 
became the secretary, then the 
manager, then the boss, You 
walked through the factory with 
assurance. You lectured Hadassah 
colleagues on the dangers of 
Zionism. Yet at home you would 
never even choose a restaurant, 
"Where do you want to go?" — that 
echo was all we could get of you, 

I am ready for a clearer 
tune, I am ready for your passion, 

I want, I want, 

My yearning drives out across 

the lawn and becomes mourning for 
the small white butterflies that 
hover above the grass. Along with 
the August heat, they are gone 
for the year. The air is clearing 
for falL The children's pool 
is collecting mud in the garden,, 
I would like you to be here. I 
would like to see the transparency 
of your skin again c I would like 
to hear the strength of your voice. 
Loving the order and gentleness 
of English gardens, you would not 
like our lawn. But you would like 
the pond dug into the hillside. And 
you would not say, but I think you 
would also like the rugged cliff. 

Tonight, mother, I will light 
a candle for you c It will be 
long and tapered and I wi I I hang it 
on the deck, out over the cliff. 
Probably I will mumble a prayer. 
Even now I can feel it forming in 
my throat. But I will mumble no 
Hebrew and I will not cover my head. 
I will look at the candle directly 
Full face. This is for your grand- 
mother, I wi I I tell my children c 
You never knew her* She is strong, 
I wi I I say c Because I know, now, 
that my anger will not kill you. 
And it is small, mother, very small 
compared with the excitement of 
seeing you tonight. 

Don't blow at the fire„ It 
adds manic to the darkness and it 
is keep inn your grandmother warm. 
She I i kes that. 




Captured near the wildest-heart 

beneath the ever-blue 

Bound against the promise tree 

the greenest always-true 

tamed & fed, its song of hope 

sounds through the cage of thorn 

the golden thread about its toes 

is cutting tightly worn 

But all the bonds & all the bars 

that block & bite & groove 

don't stop the bird from singing 

to the open-wide above 

A hunter halts to hear it singing 

in the snare of love 


the lichen 

eat stone and live 

to tell the story. 

The rocks just sit there 



Splitting away from youth 

the childmother dangles a golden braid 

over the baby's basket. 

Five pink anenome tendrils clutch and release 

the shining cord 

linking infant to child to infinite wild wheeling 


scattered behind the eyelids of 

morning glory girls 

whose early lust has knotted them to earth 

by a banded rope of hair. 

by Lynn Wasnak 


Watermelon breasts rest on a wash-tub belly 

heavy laden she spreads the arms of the chair 

clasping her flesh in tight embrace 

folds on folds somewhere between guard her 

secret place 

from invading armies of sharp pricked men 

who would stave her spirit 

through and through 
had she not this cushioned fortress 
Who knows what devils might have entered 

ready for a bite of watermelon 


by Vawn WzbbeA 

"These things we know, but 
not those that he felt when 
he descended into the last 
shade of all." 

— Jorge Luis Borges, 
El Hacador 

When she woke up, the sun was 
slanting down across the Carol ina 
flat I and and into the sunporch at 
a strange angle. It wasn't her 
first inkling of wrongness, of 
danger. Something unnamed and 
terrible had swooped down from 
pinpricks of hot August stars, hung 
about heavily in the yard, and con- 
densed into moisture to seep under 
the door and slowly into her boneSo 
Joints ached and prickled and fingers 
grew numbo Worst of all, something 
in her throat itched and pried, 
making her eyes water and roll 
around uncontrollably. 

As the morning sun set its 
blood in the sky she resolved to 
go home. Tom and Margaret-Rose had 
been right. She shouldn't have 
come. The journey was too long and 
too exhausting for a used up body 
I i ke hers. 

She pulled herself up off the 
daybed and forced stiff legs to 
move. Picking through dark flowery 
rooms, once so comfortable and true, 
she felt alien. Though she was 
born and raised here with her seven 
brothers and sisters, it wasn't 
important anymore. The only import- 
ant thing was the impatient darkness 
inside her. The face in the bathroom 
mirror looked gray and flaccid, like 
old dough. 

She limped Into the small 
kitchen with its sloping floor 
and wooden sink, and slumped at the 
notched oak table built by Father. 
Head in hands, she tried to muster 
strength. She had to go home. It 

was as incontrovertible as the shape 
of the veins in her hands. It 
would be hard, but heaven knew she 
was used to doing hard things. She 
had never dwelt much on memory, but 
now in her need she descended into 
that old vertigo of reality mixed 
with dreams and brought up a child- 
hood recollection as vivid and 
precise in her mind as a beam of 
sunlight on small change. She was 
eight and her major accomplishments 
had been in school. Her father 
was a stern Scots-Irish farmer who 
demanded simple obedience to 
himself and his religion, but 
her mother had been a country 
schoolteacher who demanded from 
all her children a devotion to 
books. School was not to be 
trifled with. This particular 
day she was late in her preparations 
for the three mile walk to school 
and the stubborn knot in her shoe- 
lace just wouldn't budge. She 
grabbed a fork to pry it out. The 
fork pul led and si ipped, and in one 
shattering instant jabbed her 
right eye into unending darkness. 

She tried breakfast, a boiled 
egg and some toast, but nothing 
would go down. Somehow the hot 
tea got her going. She pulled 
black knit stockings over the 
ridged geography of her legs, 
slipped on an ageless black dress 
and a black felt hat. Everything 
else she needed went into a large 
shopping bag with her purse. Bag 
in one hand, folded umbrella in 
the other, she locked the door and 
said goodbye to the porch where she 
had lain as a child, picking 
animals out of the puffy clouds 
scudding across southern sky. 

Walking was hard on the dry 
rutted red clay. She went slowly, 
picking along with the tip of her 
umbrella. Moisture hung in the 
hot air, beaded the blackberry 
leaves. After a while, rivulets of 
sweat ran down the backs of her legs 
and into her shoes. Her body felt 
wet, cold and hot at the same time. 

It was as if a bee had stung her 
ins ides and she could feel the poison 
gradually seeping into every vein. 
The pain, the road, the bus, every- 
thing hung right out in front of her 
like wash on a line. She lifted 
her left foot, her right foot, she 
walked on and on c Home was calling 
to her the way it calls to migratory 
birds when spring comes 

Her vision seemed to explode 
into a million tiny dots, and she 
could see between the spaces. At 
times, she felt like she was sitting 
behind her eyes and looking out 
through a tunnel. Her bag grew 

When she reached the bus stop, 
lone and isolated on this back- 
country highway, she leaned against 
the post and took ragged breaths. 
Her body was feverish and turning 
in, but her mind was floating out 
over the steamy swamps like some 
exotic bird. In the crowded 
marketplace of her mind, she 
purchased another memory. It was 
during the Depression; Julia had 
died of tuberculosis and left her 
with Margaret-Rose. The child had 
become hers, and she had supported 
them both by long, tedious hours 
over the sewing machine, her slender 
fingers pin-pricked and her one 
good eye squinting to see if the 
seams were straight. A second memory 
sprang out of that one, and she saw 
Ralph, the man she had loved, a 
widower with four children. He had 
wanted to marry her, but he didn't 
want Margaret-Rose. He said four 
children were enough, and Margaret- 
Rose could go with one of the other 
sisters. She had known her duty 
She had turned him down. 

The sun was sitting high in 
the sky when the bus rumbled up in 
a cloud of dust and flapped its 
door open. She tried to put a good 
face on her misery as she took each 
step one at a time. Her heart 
was thumping in her ears and her 
vision was glowing white and starting 

to come apart again when a strong 
hand reached out and pulled her 
up the rest of the way. The voice 
was thin and high, an old man's 
voice, but when she looked up she 
saw he was a square-jawed young 
man with longish brown hair 
hanging down from the sides of 
his busdriver's cap. He looked at 
her with bottomless brown eyes 
and the gold in his teeth gleamed. 

"Morn in' M'am. Reckon you've 
had yourself quite a walko Set 
down and rest a spell before you 
pay me. I know you're not gonna 
be runnin' away anytime soon " 

She collapsed in a small 
black bundle on the first seat 
of the half-empty bus c Her mouth 
was dry and her teeth felt glued 
together. Somehow she must get 
through the long ride ahead. The 
afternoon inched by like globules 
rising in a syrup jar — slow, sticky. 

The blue eye of the bus 
pulsated through the night and 
down the lonely roads like a wild 
star. Mountains with uncertain 
peaks wafted by on waves of chill. 
Her face felt hot and dry while 
her body shivered with cold. Old 
visions and discarded dreams 
jounced in her head in regular 
intervals with the lurching of the 
bus. In that half-conscious state 
between wake and sleep, she again 
saw through the spaces and the 
angel of mercy appeared. She 
could have, if she had known, 
compared him with a stylized 
kabuki dancer, his long mane 
flashing in a continuous motion 
as he guarded the edge of her vision, 
But she saw him as a series of 
continuously flashing, winding 
lights, starting at the upper 
corner of her eye and dancing down 
until he eventually encompassed her 
whole vision. She had last seen 
him in the recovery room after the 
doctors had cut off her right 
breast. This was a memory that 
came back without bitterness; it 


was little enough to give in return 
for her I i fe. 

The Chicago bus station smel led 
of urine, like all bus stations. 
She was weak-kneed, exhausted to 
the pit of her stomach, her face 
grimy and shiny. Somehow she 
walked the gray blocks to the 
train station, though she was 
electrified with fear at her 
diminishing vision. The train was 
moving and she had settled into 
the vinyl seat when her vision 

She leaned her head against 
the pitted window. Clouds of dust 
billowed by. Her eye rode the 
telephone wires. Out of her 
memory rose the bright spectre 
of Danny, her first grand-nephew. 
She had told him and his friends so 
many times not to play on the 
lumber pile behind the barn. But 
Danny's disdain in the face of 
danger was awesome. He would 
climb to the top of the pile and 
dance along the edge, then jump 
down yelling Tarzan or some such 
thing. The day she heard the 
children screaming, she knew 
immediately and without doubt what 
had happened. She rushed outside 
to see Tom carrying Danny around 
the barn. The boy's once bright 
eyes were dimmed and glazed and 
blood ran from his mouth. She 
had held his crushed body close 
to her own as Tom had driven them 
to the hospital. He died before 
they got there. 

When the leaves shone on the 
spindly trees like silver half- 
dollars and wild daisies buttered 
the scrub grass between the 
tracks, she knew she was home. She 
descended the train, and as it 
sighed into the flat distance, she 
moved her numb body into the small 
station and dialed home to tell 
them to come get her. Gathering 
her forces one last time she made 
her way to the old wooden pew. 
Margaret-Rose soon scurried into 

the station and grabbed her hands. 
"Nannie! You're pale as wax!" 

Outside it rained, water 
graying the air like some elemental 
spirit. But the rain was no 
symbol for the dying woman. She 
lay in the dim room, which smelted 
of formaldehyde and was bathed in a 
peculiarly hallucinatory light 
like all hospital rooms For the 
first time in her life she allowed 
herself to be surrounded by iron 
bars. Her kidneys stopped function- 
ing. Margaret-Rose sat with her, 
relieved often by Tom, It was 
odd that it was Tom who stood by her 
bed for hours, stroking her steely, 
thin hair and holding her cold 
hands. When he and Margaret-Rose had 
married, they had insisted that she 
come live with them, wouldn't 
have it any other way. But as she 
had grown older, their relationship 
had grown colder, more distant. 
He had not taken it kindly when 
the children would run to her arms 
after being scolded by him. Her 
eccentricities, like always having 
to be on time for everything to 
the point of calling out the time 
every ten minutes, had gotten more 
noticeable, less easy to bear. 
But certain grave instances in 
life blot out old grudges and vapid 
resentments. So it was Tom who 
stood beside her. 

She did not die that night 
or the next. But on Friday morning 
before dawn, Tom standing beside her, 
her face looking as though it were 
chiseled from granite, her light 
and her memories slipped from the 




wiw wwv 

caAQAb hen. hcuA, wild wind 
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to virgin hoKizom> 
no otheA loveA daxe. 

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In the. wake, ^oami po&bibUJUty 

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Image, in glab&y bilenae.} &he. mouth* 

The. my o{ eXeAnJLty while, a 

ReAtleJ>6 bifid 6pn.ea.di> it* wingi bz^onz {light. 


When you. wexviy 

o{ the. night-long wan, 
Keejatng the. wolveA 

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at my doon. 
And we,'U. laugh 

the. dankneAh away. 



by Lynn Thomcu> St/iauAA 

Sh i kasta by Doris Lessing. 

Great Britain, Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1979. 

Reading the evening newspaper 
closely, one is struck by the 
fearsome resemblences between the 
daily realities reflected there and 
the new world of galactic empires 
and dying planets crafted by Doris 
Lessing in her newest book, Shi kasta , 

Shi kasta is the first of a 
series called Canopus in Argos : 
Arch ives . The second novel in the 
series will be ca I led The Marriages 
Between Zones Three, Four and Five . 
The third will be The Sirian Experi- 

Sh i kasta is the story of a new 
world, its history, its peoples, 
its destruction and its rebirth. The 
story is set in the cosmic realm; 
experimental species, conflict 
between humans and the forces of nature 
and galactic warfare are only some of 
the themes developed here. 

In a description of this world 
early in the book, Ms. Lessing says, 
"This is a catastrophic universe 
always; and subject to sudden reversals 
upheavals, changes, cataclysms, with 
joy never anything but the song of 
substance under pressure forced into 
new forms and shapes " 

The scope of this work is 
awesome. The reader becomes a student 
of the history of the colonial rule 
of the Empire Canopus on the Planet 
Shi kasta. 

At times it was difficult to 
think "big" enough to take in this 
massive work. Often I felt myself 
transported into Ms. Lessing's 
cosmic sphere unable to distinguish 
fact from fiction. I , as a reader* 
sometimes found myself too exhausted 
and overwhelmed from my participation 
in this sphere to continue my reading. 
As always in Ms. Lessing's work, 
painful guestions are raised and even 
more painful solutions offered. 

Early in the book, I was swept 
into a world of giants, geometric 
cities, The Signature, The Century 
of Destruction, and a species whose 
life span was four or five thousand 
years long. 

The Empire of Canopus has 
colonized the Planet Shikasta and is 
continually sending emissaries to 

Photo by Peter Nicholas Lessing 


work, without the Shikastans know- 
ledge, for the preservation of the 
species. The species is in the grip 
of destruction by the forces of the 
evil planet Shammat of the Empire 
Puttoria. Shammat feeds on the good- 
ness and strength of Shikasta, 
siphoning off the Substance-Of-We- 
Feeling (SOWF) that is provided in 
a limited but continuing flow from 
Canopus to Shikasta. If the species 
can survive there is a promise that 
the small flow of SOWF will some day 
become a flood* SOWF is described 
as a cosmic flow of positive energy, 
but when overpopulation of Shikasta 
occurs there is not enough to go 
around. Also atmospheric pollutants 
effectively block the flow' of SOWF. 

Without enough SOWF the symptoms 
of decay increase. During this period 
in Shikastan History there is a 
rapid growth of fear and suspicion 
among people and nations. Terrorism, 
militarism and racial hatred in- 
crease. Lost to the Shikastans is 
the understanding of Duty— that 
something was due by them, was 
strange, inconceivable news. They 
were set only for taking or being 
given. Lost also was the experienc- 
ing of a child as a mi racle. . .the 
understanding that the child has the 
capacity to be everything. That a 
child holds all the history of the 
human race — having in the substance 
of her body and her thoughts everything 
that had ever happened to every 
person of humankind,, 

During the period between the 
wars, called on Shikasta World War II 
and World War III, it becomes clear 
that total destruction of the civili- 
zations of Shikasta is unavoidable. 
Yet there is hope because, "There is 
something else, and stronger than 
-anything: the well-being, the always 
renewing, regenerative, healing force 
of nature; feeling one with the other 
creatures of Shikasta and its soil, 
and its plants. 

The lowest, the most downtrodden, 
the most miserable of Shikastans, will 
watch the wind moving a plant, and 

smile; will plant a seed and watch 
it grow; will stand to watch the life 
of the clouds. Or I ie pleasurably 
awake in the dark, hearing wind howl 
that cannot-not tlvU> time-harm him 
where he I ies safe. This is where 
strength has always welled, irrepres- 
sibly, into every creature of Shikasta." 

So Canopus is at work attempting 
to preserve the best of Shikasta — for 
a future is possible. 

We learn of all this through the 
reports of Johor, emissary to Shikasta, 
arriving through zone six as the child 
George Sherban. As he matures and 
takes leadership in the youth armies, 
we understand much of life on Shikasta 
through the journal of his sister, 
Rachel Sherban. These documents are 
supplemented by additional letters, 
reports, notes and illustrations with 
important background information 
provided through excerpts from the 
Volumes of The History of Shikasta 
This compilation of documents serves 
to inform us of all significant aspects 
of I ife on Shikasta. 

One theme developed in this novel 
that I hope will be explored further 
in the other books of this series is 
the conflict on Shikasta between the 
cultures and countries of the northern 
hemisphere and those of the southern 
hemisphere c In Shikasta a Mock Trial 
was staged on the highest levels of 
the Combined Youth Armies of the 
World. The Defendant was the White 
Races. The Prosecuters, the Dark-skinned 
Races. The Trial, held in the circular 
stone ruins of huge amphitheaters in 
a country called Greece, took several 
months to complete,, All that time 
was spent in testimony for the prose- 
cution which took the form of long 
indictments offered by representatives 
of each of the Dark-skinned Races. At 
the culmination of weeks of this kind 
of emotion-charged cataloging of the 
crimes of the White Races against the 
Dark-skinned Races in an atmosphere 
of extreme physical crowding, intense 
heat and shortages of food and water 
it came time finally to hear the 


defense. The representative of The 
White Races, (George Sherban) stood 
up and made this statement, "I plead 
guilty to everything that has been 
said. How can I do anything else?" 

But the book does not end here, 
the readers' acquaintance with the 
Empire Canopus has just been struck. 
There are certainly worlds to go for 
Doris Lessing and for us. 

Ms. Lessing in her introduction 
tells us that the second volumne in 
this work has turned out to be a 
fable or myth, but oddly enough more 
realistic than Shikasta. 

It is the tension between the 
mythical and the real that provide 
much of the power of Shi kasta . I 
eagerly look forward to further cosmic 
journeys guided by the skill and 
daring of Doris Lessing. 

Readers may expect reviews of 
the second and third volumes of 
the trilogy in future issues of The 
Creative Woman 


"Right Out of History" 

about Judy Chicago's "Dinner Party" 

February 19, 1981 7:00 p.m. Engbretson Hall 

Sponsored by the Women's Resource Center, the Art 

Department and The Creative Woman. 

Governors State University 




yf- * 






, ^•i'^^^***''''^"**-/.- /■■^BBm 



Tatjana Mamonova 


KaK 3TO pox^ajiocb? 

B cTpaAaHHflix — 

KaK poacnaeTcn MejiOBeKl 

Kax 9To cTajio npeKpacHHM? 

t-tepea neyajib — 

KaK jihijo MejiOBeKa 

KaK npnnijia k 3TOMy? 


KaK nptiXofltfT b B0 3JiK>6jieHHbiH ropofl, 

KaK Hamjia 3 to? 

•rpyAHo — 

KaK Haxo#.HT ^;py3eH 

KaK Hamjia Bac 



Wie ist es entstanden? 

Mit Leiden 

wie der Mensch, wenn er geboren wird. 

Wie konnte es so schon werden? 

Durch die Trauer, 

wir das Gesicht des Menschen. 

Wie bist du dahingekommen? 

Barf uss, 

wir man in eine gl iebte Stadt kommto 

Wie hast du es gefunden? 


wir man Freunde findet, 

wie ich euch fand, 

die diese Zeilen lesen. 

Russian - German 

Translation from " Courage 5" (March 1980) 


dComo nacio'esto? 
En el sufrimiento 
iComo nace una persona! 
iComo se hizo hermoso? 
A traves del dolor 
Como la^ cara de una persona 
iComo llegue'a esto? 
Como se jn'ene a la ciudad amada 
iComo encontre'esto? 
Con dificultad 
Como se encuentra a los amigos 
Como los encontre' a ustedes, 
iLos lectores de estas lineas! 

English/Spanish Translation By: 
Teresa B. Duron 

How was this born? 
In suffering 
As a person is born! 
How did this become beautiful? 
Through sorrow 
Like the face of a person 
How did I arrive at this? 

As one comes to a beloved city c 
How did I find this? 
With difficulty 
As one finds friends, 
As I found you, 
The readers of these lines! 

Russian - Engl ish 
Translation by Suzanne Prescott 



Comment estce ni ? 

Dans la douleur 

comme nait I'homme! 

Comment est venue la merveille ? 

par la tristesse 

comme le visage de I'homme. 

Comment y suis-je arrive'e ? 

pieds nus 

comme on parvient 6 la ville bien aimt 

Comment I'ai-je trouvi ? 


comme on trouve ses amis 

comme je vous ai trouves 

vous qui lirez ces lignes ! 

(translated from the Russian by 
Judith Stora-Sandor, des femrnes en 
mouvements hebdo, Paris 

TS£ Q^k ^5f £V 
(**, oil thi' ^r 

"**& ^~~^ ^5^. ^&? 

. <^ 

3rB" <^P| ^4M^ T^ET m*T^ ^*' " Mi-5 \ 

Engl ish - Hindi 

Translation by Tazneema Ghazi 


Engl ish - Chinese 
Translation by Jacob Liao 


I o 



C? U-£> ll>v^->j <J»-J 

43 U^v> i ol l> jj)l j^_y l/ 

Engl ish - Arabic 
Translation by Aida Shekib 





The tiglvt *hine* faom youK doon. 
and 1 am *moo thing my hea/ut down 
a* ifi it wexe hail. 

[We aKe *uch plain thing* — 
growing wing* only when 
we need to n.e.ach dn.e,am* . ) 

Voua dnmo become* htxong 
and I am mothlike, 
beating to get in. 

[Hell i* not the, iine 

the (\lame, the IXglit — 

hell, iA the wanting it *o much. ) 


The leave* one, naked in pile* 
the washing hang* in low* 

and I have, hoivi* 

to think oft youn laughten, 

thick enough to ^ill a hou*e — 

it could coven. winteA 

like a coat ofa *un&loweA* 

Seeing you, I am *tunned 

by the panic at what I might lo*e p 

Keach up and move back; 

helple** tike a *paM.ow 

I i$ee£ the. eanth *lant 

and pull away. 


Some dneam* one. bonn aVieady ^Kamed 
in gilt pla*tex, waiting to n.e*t 
in the blue, *pace oven. bed*. 

Beyond that white afic 

o{j a hand pulling contain* 

and touching a face. 

a dAeam can gn.ow wild t 

tike a tietic ofa gafiden* 

now, pa**ing colon. night* that *eem gfuay — 

without *tax*. 




Ij$ I can 6top onz hzant fifwrn bnzaking 

I hhaJUL not tivz in vain 
Ij^ X can za6z onz LL&z the aching 

On cool onz pain 
On hztp onz fainting no bin 

Unto hu nz&t again 
I ihall not tivz in vain 

EmiZy Dickinson 

Fin&t in a 6zniz& on thz 
pzoplz w/io makz Thz Cn.zcutivz Woman * 
In thid nzw dzpantmznt ioz intznd to 
givz oua nzadz/u bnizfa ikztchzd ofi 
thz nzmankablz women Mho Ivxvz bzzn 
putting tlva> zntznpnJL&z togzthzn 
ion thz past ^oua ijzoaa. 


Mlmi Kaplan, librarian and univer- 
sity professor has served on the 
Advisory Council of The Creative 
Woman since 1977. She has written 
articles for us on the ways in which 
children's books have reflected 
sex-role sterotypes in the larger 
culture. Her article, "Women in 
Children's Literature" published 
in Vol. I, No. 2 in 1977, points 
to the role of the women's 
movement in highlighting sexism 
in chi Idren's books. 

In another article, "Sneetches, 
Oob leeks, Grinches, and Gacks" 
(Vol. Ill, No. 2, 1979) Mimi explores 
the appeal of the popular Dr. Seuss 
books for children. 

An article describing her work 
with breast cancer patients in 
self-help groups and workshops staffed 
by peer volunteers was co-authored 
with Ann Marcou. "Breast Cancer 
and Peer Counseling" was published 
in Vol. Ill, No. 4, in 1980. 

Along with providing support 
for women following breast cancer 
surgery, Mimi has also made avail- 
able sound information to women on 
such controversial and crucial 
topics as estrogen therapy, diet, 
mammography, surgical procedures, 
radiation and chemotherapy in her 
article, "The Breast Cancer 
Controversy", (Vol. I, No. 4, 1978). 

When Mimi became ill with breast 
cancer, she characteristically 
became involved with psychosocial 
aspects of women struggling with 


breast cancer and the education of 
lay public and professionals. 
She organized a Seminar at GSU to 
help women understand better the 
options available to them in treat- 
ment forms, and above all, to 
learn how to examine themselves and 
care for themselves. 

From this first seminar Mimi 
went on to become a founder of 
Y-Me — a breast cancer support organ- 
ization serving the entire Chicago 
Metropolitan Area. The staff and 
trained volunteers of Y-Me all have 
had breast cancer treatment. They 
share concerns, feelings and 
information with each other in a 
spirit of support and encouragement, 

Among the services available 
through Y-Me, are: 

* A hotline staffed by trained 
vol unteers. 

* Educational Meetings for women 
who have had breast cancer and 
would like information from 
experts. These meetings are 
open to the public and family 
members and friends are invited 
to attend. The meetings also in- 
clude an informal rap session. 

* Breast cancer workshops offered 
to groups and organizations use 
an excellent slide/tape show to 


impress women with the importance 
of early detection, the correct 
methods of breast self -exam and 
alternative methods of treatment. 
* And finally Y-Me organizes support 
groups which meet periodically 
in various locations. These 
meetings are conducted by trained 

For further information or hotline 
service please call: (312) 747-8496„ 

Mimi's upbeat spirit, cheerful 
smile, and energetic insistence 
that people can DO something about 
the vicissitudes that flesh is heir 
to, have been an inspiration to her 
friends whether they are wel I or 
themselves fighting a life-threaten- 
ing illness. Faced in recent months 
with a setback, Mimi typically 
worried about what this would mean 
to the many women who were counting 
on her. So she wrote 100 letters 
urging them not to give up or to 
stop chemotherapy, to reassure them 
that she was still actively engaged 
in the self-help movement for 
breast cancer patients. 

Mimi: we love you, we're 
proud of you, thanks for your 
competence, courage and caring. 

Issue #4 • Fall/Winter 1980 • Two Dollars 
A Nationwide Journal 

gentle men for gender justice 

California Men's Gathering 
If Your Friend Gets Raped 

A Call for a Feminist Men's History 

Poetry Music Celebrating Earth Cycles 
Directory/Calendar Reviews 

M.:gentle men for gender justice is a project of the Regional Young 
Adult Project, 9M Market St., San Francisco, CA 9^102. 





The first of what will be a 
regular feature. 

Dear Helen, 

I want you to know that I read 
every word of the latest issue on 
Coming of Age Q I think it is a very 
fine publication,, Reading about the 
impressions you formed in Europe has 
given me a clearer idea of what was 
going on with those women over there. 

You're performing a real service. 

Dave Crispin, 
Professor of Psychology 
Governors State University 

Dear Friends, 

I enjoyed, particularly the issue 
on psychology, but then I've enjoyed 
every issue, cover to cover. Thank 
you for your continuing excellence. 

For Feminism, 
Jo Ann Evansgardner, Ph.D. 
Chair, Division 35 
Psychology of Women 
American Psychological Assoc. 

Dear Helen! 

We were very glad to get your warm 
letter. We are here far from our 
motherland, far from our parents and 
our club's sisters, so appearing of 
a new sister here, in the West, gives 
us strength, makes our life here 
lighter. Now we are working very 
hard with our new feminist magazine, 
which we called Maria . 

We want very much to see you, to 
speak together about our common 

In October we shall get the Russian 
text of Woman and Russia . 

The first number of Maria we have 
already here, and in October we shall 
have a new number of this magazine. 

We embrace and kiss you! Write 
us please! 

With best wishes to you, 
Natasha Ma I achovskaya 
Tat i ana Mamonova 
Julia Vosnesenskaya 

Tatjana Goritceva 

Natalia Malachovskaja 


Letters to the Creative Woman continued.... 


of 15 

„ pa 

January 30, 1980 

Dr. Helen Hughes 

Ms. Iynn Strauss 

Governors State University 

Park Forest South, Illinois 60U66 

Dear Dr. Hughes and Ms. Strauss: 

I want you to know how much I have particularly enjoyed your last 
two issues of The Creative Woman. Although I have kept tabs on the 
development of your journal for the past several years, it was the 
issue on energy guest-edited by Bethe Hag ens which convinced me to 
order my own subscription. Then, when I had received your recent issue 
on aging, I became convinced that something has happened on which I 
must comment. 

It seems to me that your journal has evolved a unique style that is 
at once serious, and gentle, and evocative. Because it has these char- 
acteristics ( which are far from usual ) and because it reveals con- 
stantly the array of talent among women in the south suburbs and in 
the GSU community, I believe that it has and will in the future have 
a beneficial effect on both the quality of life in the south suburbs, 
and on the reputation of the university. 

With the issues that divide women today, we need you badly. I hope 
you will prosper as much as you have grown in strength and beauty over 
the past few years. 

Yours sincerely, 


Glenda Bailey-Mershon, *77 




all of whom 
deeply, pro- 
One breathes 

Returning to one's native land after 
a year's absence induces first a kind 
of euphoria: the simple fact of being 
surrounded by people, 
speak my language, is 
found I y, comforting, 
deeply, relaxes inwardly, remembers 
Paul Goodman's "Be quiet, heart. 
Home ! Home ! " 

Then one morning, everything has 
become usual again. The year so fill- 
ed with people, places, sights, events, 
traveling, learning, seems suddenly 
to have passed as in a dream. Yet, 
what is changed is, in some subtle 
way, oneself, and what has shifted, 
if only slightly, Is one's perspec- 
tive on America. (That may be the 
best reason to go abroad, after all: 
to attain enough distance to see one's 
own country more clearly,) The voices 
that I hear grandiosely extol I ing 
America as the "greatest nation the 
world has ever seen" sound smug, 
boring, ignorant, or embarrassi ng Q 
The United States ranks 14th among 
the nations of the world in infant 
mortality rate; alone among the 
Western nations we still have no 
national health insurance; the 
countries of Northern Europe have 

a higher per capita income and a 
higher standard of living than ours; 
there are no slums in the Netherlands; 
a new administration in Washington 
is chopping away at programs for the 
young, the elderly and the poor; 
someone was just approved for Deputy 
Secretary of State who does not know 
who is the prime minister of South 
Africa or Zimbabwe, nor what NATO 
countries oppose nuclear missiles, 
nor what changes have taken place in 
the British Labour Party; we are NOT 
the only people in the world to have 
a peaceful transfer of political 
power! Europeans and Canadians do it 
regularly and manage it in a great 
deal less time, and with less fuss 
and expense. 

What do I miss about Europe? For 
starters, I miss waking every 
morning to the BBC World News — fif- 
teen minutes of genuine uninterrupted 
reporting followed by fifteen minutes 
of analysis and interpretation — 
without advertising. The early morn- 
ing dai ly del ivery of the Internationa 

Herald Tribune, Paris Edition, a thin 
paper with its neat, thorough, intelli- 
gent coverage, cul led from the New 
York Times and the Washington Post . 
The civility and social consciousness 
of the Dutch people and their 
government. In spite of the technolog- 
ical capability of our immense media 
industry here in the United States, 
it is, paradoxically, harder here to 
find out what is going on „ It is 
like sloshing through the Everglades 
to find it, hidden in swamps of 
advertising and dense thickets of 
publicity, sensationalism and hype. 

What I am reporting here is in no 
way a "European perspective." 
Europeans are caught in a dependen- 
cy-hostility ambivalence toward the 
United States; the big and powerful 
are rarely loved, yet Europe knows 
they need our mi I itary and economic 
strength, they are both critical and 
scornful, and smile when they complain 
"When Washington gets a cold, Europe 


Rather, this is the testimony of an 
American Abroad, with the complex 
consciousness that that implies. 
Events of the past two decades have 
placed me somewhere between a 
disappointed idealist and a heart- 
broken patriot. Indeed, we could be 
better than we are. In Europe I was 
stirred by examples of grandeur of 
the human spirit, thrilled to find 
that the noble figures of history 
are not a lost species: they are 
living among us on this planet at 
this very hour. Let me name my 
candidates for your consideration: 

Where does one look for statesmanship 
of the highest order? 
Look at ROBERT MUGABE, the George 
Washington of Zimbabwe, who has so 
far succeeded in bringing together 
previously warring groups, black and 
white, into one army and one nation. 
Gombining vision, political sophisti- 
cation and courage, he has convinced 
white farmers not to leave while he 
moved toward agrarian reform in a 
context of reconciliation and firm 
commitment to a rule of due process 
of law. 

6 Africa Can Be 
Saved — or 

Where does one look for an example 
of personal integrity and indestructi- 
bi I ity? 

separated the day after their marriage 
in Moscow on July 4, 1973. Avital 
emigrated to Israel, expecting her 
husband to follow. Anatoly, a Jewish 
activist and monitor of the Helsinki 
accords on human rights, is serving 
a 13-year sentence in a remote 
Soviet prison for "treason." Anatoly 
is a man who could not be broken; 
throughout his faked up trial, during 
his six months of "interrogation" by 
the KGB at Lubyanka, he continued to 

defy and laugh at the preposterous 
charges that were brought against 
him. I attended on the 12th and 13th 
of May, 1980, an Emergency Conference 
on Shcharansky held in Amsterdam. It 
featured a brilliant panel „ Representa- 
tive Robert Drinan was there, (just 
exiled from Congress by the Pope) 
reporting that Sakharov had said to 
him "Only the Christians of America 
can save the Jews of Russia." Of 
the three million Jews in Russia, 
225,000 have emigrated in the new 
exodus. Andy Young talked about the 
tragedy of Mandela in South Africa,, 
Ramsey Clark quoted Hugo Grot i us, the 
Dutch author of the idea of universal 
human rights in the 16th century. 
Lord Eric Avebury quoted John Stuart 
Mill. Bayard Rustin gave the most 
moving performance when he sang his 
re-written version of an old slave 
song "Oh, Freedom!." Rustin stressed 
that indifference is the problem; 
that indifference is a tragedy, a 
judgement and a punishment. "This 
conference" he said, "is about 
memory. Do we remember? Shall we 
remember? It is about indifference. 
To remember is to create and to forget 
is to die." Rustin related the Jewish 
experience to the black experience, 
saying that "it brought redemption 
to us" because "the Mississippi was 
not our river — Jordan was our river, 
and V/ashington was not our city — 
Jerusalem was our city"... "Not to 
have remembered the Jewish experience 
would have delayed our own freedom." 

Anatoly Shcharansky Avital Shcharansky 


Avital, a small and quiet woman, suggests 
at first look a shy girl, a timid deer 
with large, pleading eyes In fact, 
she is made of a very special kind 
of sinew, nerve, dedication and will, 
which has carried her around the 
Western world in an uninterrupted 
struggle to gain the release of her 
husband. She is a woman who is 
wholly immersed in the struggle to 
bring Anatoly out to freedom c Avital 
gave me her gentle smile, as she 
inscribed for me her book Next Year in 
Jerusalem with the words "in hope " 
Shcharansky, chessmaster, mathematician, 
computer expert, Jew, human rights 
activist, prisoner — pounds on our 
door, Avital will not let us close 
our ears. If we do so, we do so at 
our own peri I . 

Where does one look for an example 
of the classic labor leader? 
In LECH WALESA who every day displays 
again his ability to stand and guide 
the vast vessel which is the aroused 
national will of the working people of 
Poland through those expected straits 
of the bureaucratic totalitarian rocks 
of the communist state. It is a 
breathtaking display of courage, 
leadership and faith. The joke 
going around Europe is that Karl Marx 
finally got two minutes of time on 
Moscow radio, and began: "Workers of 
the world: forgive me!..." 

Where does one look for the visionary 
yet sober planning of the original 
United Nations founders at Dunbarton 
Oaks . .. ? 

In the Brandt Report: NORTH SOUTH: A 
of the Independent Commission on 
International Development Issues. 
This report addresses the problems of 
inequality in the world. Hundreds 
of millions of people live on the 
edge of starvation in the Southern 
Hemisphere. If the industrialized 
countries of the Northern Hemisphere 
are to survive they must imagine, 
design, and implement a response. This 
is a political and an economic report, 
containing the means by which the 
world economy can escape the perils 

of our time. It is the first docu- 
ment of its kind, involving a group 
of influential Western, OPEC and 
third world leaders, who agreed 
unanimously on a plan of action,, 
This report offers us hope within 
our lifetime., Why has so little 
attention been paid to it? 

The Brandt Report: 
Sunk Without Trace? 

Let me repeat that after a year in 
Europe, my deep, deeper than words, 
identification with my country is 
salted with shame. The Brandt 
Report reminds us that the United 
Nations resolved one decade ago that 
developed nations would commit one 
percent of their gross national 
product for the net transfer of 
resources to developing countries; 
official assistance would be 
targeted at 0.7 per cent. The 
United States did not commit itself 
to this target. Most industrialized 
countries gave a disappointing 
record~0.35 percent of GNP in 1978. 
The Scandinavian countries and 
little Netherlands, on the other 
hand, exceeded their target. The 
OPEC countries far exceeded their 
target and contributed nearly 
35S of their GNP. The U.S. contribu- 
tion has fallen from 0.5 in 1960 to 
0.27 percent in 1980. Also disappoint- 
ing are the records of Germany, Japan, 
and the Soviet Union. 

To conclude, I'm glad to be home 
again. It's wonderful to see my 
friends, children and grandchildren, 
to return to work, to have work to 
do, to be part of the ongoing effort, 
joy and struggle of this life. 
Readers should know that as the 
Reagan administration turns away from 
the concerns of the third world, away 
from a commitment to human rights and 
social justice, this publication will 
direct its small voice toward a more 
international consciousness,, Contri- 
butions are solicited for "Women in 


the Third World", deadline June 21, 

There is a big world out there. 
Wonderful as well as terrible things 
are happen ing e We are all connected 
by a fragile and precious thread e 
'We will attend to these matters and 
survive — or remain indifferent and 

Helen E. Hughe*, Editor 


Bnandt, UWLy, Chain, oft 
Comml66lon on InteAnationat 
VeveZopment l4-6ueA. Uonth South: 
A Ptiogtiamme. Von, 19&0 
Van Boofe-6, London,, 

EmoA.Qenc.ij ConfieAence on Shdwiavi&ky, 
pe/uonal papeAA, H Hughes. 

Goodman, Paul, The Loh.dZ.ij (Hud&on. 

Skcha/ianAky, Avital, NexX Veah. In 
Jehu&alern. 1979 WtttLam MoWiou) 
S Co. Mew yon.k. 


~^ZM ft 

*&&• ' ■■■ '•••'■;•• 


Crocuses blooming through the snow.... snow flowers 


Photograph by Joe Martin 


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